


Godswood

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angst, Children, F/M, Winterfell, future!fic, married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-16
Updated: 2011-07-16
Packaged: 2017-10-21 10:55:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their children laugh and play in the Godswood, and they still wake up in each other's arms from horrifying nightmares.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Godswood

They play in the Godswood. The little girl who jumps from tree to tree like a bird learning how to fly; a little girl who will someday learn that life is _not a song_ and that she’ll never learn how to fly. And the little boy with her father’s eyes and Robb’s smile and her mother’s hair who will someday start asking questions about his fathers scarred face and why his mother won’t sing him to sleep.

Sandor was terrified of the idea of having children. Sansa still thinks, even five, ten years later, that he was terrified that having children would turn them into the monsters his brother was. Or worse, that they would turn on each other, and leave each other with scars that last a lifetime.

She doesn’t know how to answer her children’s questions. “When did you and father fall in love?” _Because he wiped the blood off my face after the king had his soldiers beat me_ is not the answer you give a child. They know that the crypts of Winterfell carry her mother and father and older brother, all softly sleeping under the summer snow.

But they’ll never really _know._ Sansa doesn’t want them too.

Their children, whose nightmares are about creatures from the night and dragons and silly, childish fears. Not trying desperately to reach her father for one last moment; not struggling on the edge of a precipice; not wiping blood off her face; not sitting in a tent somewhere and deciding how many men to send to their deaths that day.

Their children, who take granted the peace that both their parents sacrificed so much for.

Whenever she wakes from a nightmare, always screaming, never close enough, Sandor is always there, always there to tell her that it’s going to be all right. _Is it?_ In return, she always kisses the scarred flesh on the side of his face, always agrees that it’s going to be all right.

But one day, Sansa and Sandor both know that they’ll have to tell their children why you can always hear screaming from their rooms at night. Why even after so many years, they always will.

They can only survive by being together. There are still moments where Sandor runs away from the heat of a fire. Sansa still sways at high places and flinches at raised hands.

But some ideas still hurt; still make her scream; still make her cry.

One, that they run and laugh on a land where soldiers fought and died for a peace so new that everything seems to threaten to tear it apart, a land of her own broken hopes and dreams, a land of his scars and horrible memories.

Two, that they don’t know it. 


End file.
